


Frosting Covered Coins

by MagitekUnit05953234



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fantasy Christmas, M/M, Mentioned Noctis Lucis Caelum, Not Comrades Compliant, Polyship roadtrip but Noct is gone, Rocky relationship but it's all good I promise, World of Ruin, Xenophobia, the apocalypse is rough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 03:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17154635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagitekUnit05953234/pseuds/MagitekUnit05953234
Summary: Prompto arrives in Lestallum on who knows what day at who knows what time, dusty and covered in more than a little blood, worn thin from four weeks spent hunting in Leide. He counts his gil, runs through the pros and cons, and comes to the conclusion that another (figurative) night spent sleeping on stone will be easier to bear with a treat for breakfast.





	Frosting Covered Coins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skitty_titty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitty_titty/gifts).



> This is a gift for the absolutely lovely [Jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitty_titty/profile), who I got in the writers server's gift exchange!!

Lestallum is the city that never sleeps. It never used to be that way. Before the Night, that title appropriately belonged to Insomnia— the Crown Jewel of Lucis. The streets were always busy and stores were always open.

There aren’t many cities like that left. Just Lestallum.

For all Prompto knows, Lestallum may be the only city left in all of Eos.

It’s never quiet here.

Prompto is _tired_. He doesn’t know whether it’s a societally appropriate time to sleep, but he isn’t entirely sure he even cares what time it is in the first place. Prompto sleeps when his body drags him down to rest… or tries to anyway. Most people try to set their schedules against their aging watches and old mantelpiece clocks, but Prompto gave up that sort of thing as soon as his cell phone was dashed against the stone of a haven during a mad dash to safety in year three.

So he sleeps whenever. Sets his days by how much exhaustion pulls at his bones. It works. It does.

Prompto arrives in Lestallum on who knows what day at who knows what time, dusty and covered in more than a little blood, worn thin from four weeks spent hunting at the Vesperpool. As the gate rattles down to the ground behind him, Prompto takes a moment to lean against the walls of the entryway, catching his first breaths after suffering through almost a month of nonstop danger and stress.

“You alright there?” Vediovis, a regular on gate duty thanks to a leg injury in year one that he never quite recovered from, peeks out of the gate control room window, craning his neck to get a good look at Prompto.

“Yeah,” Prompto pushes himself off the wall and straightens up despite the ache in his back. I’m good! Don’t worry about it.”  
“Haven’t seen you in like a month,” Vediovis plants his elbows on the window sill and pillows his chin on the knuckles of his clasped hands. “You been out there alone all this time?”

“Sure have,” Prompto rubs at his jaw.  

“That’s rough,” Vediovis commiserates. “And I thought being on gates was bad.”

“It’s not bad,” Prompto awkwardly points a thumb behind him, in the direction of the city center. “I ah… I’ll be seeing you, Vis.”

“Sure, sure,” Vediovis waves a hand vaguely and retreats back into the control room. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

“I’m twenty-five!” Prompto cups his hands around his mouth to make his voice travel, walking backward and hoping he won’t trip.

“Everyone’s a kid when you’re forty-six!”

Prompto’s smile drops as he ventures into the city. Hustle and bustle is a staple of this place, inevitable what with the sheer volume of people packed into such a small area, and Prompto has grown to hate that sort of thing. Sure, the apocalyptic wasteland outside is flat-out deadly, but gods at least it’s _quiet_.

Prompto used to have an apartment in Lestallum, back when he tried to strike out entirely on his own in year two, but rent only skyrocketed the longer the Night went on and Prompto felt bad about claiming a place when he was hardly around to use it anyway. He usually stays in the temporary hunter and merc housing on the outer edges of the city if there’s room. Ignis and Gladio's apartment if he can handle it. If not, well. Nothing wrong with trekking back out to the nearest haven that isn’t known for flickering out at the most inopportune times, right?

As it turns out, there’s no room at the temp housing. Prompto runs his finger down the sign-in sheet once more for verification, then scrubs his hand over his face. He’d hoped for just one night in a real bed before going back out into the wilds, but he should have expected this sort of thing.

“So it goes,” Prompto mutters. He decides to at least swing by the market on his way and pick up some food before he heads out. He has a fair amount in his bag now, but it never hurts to be prepared.

Prompto knows what stalls to avoid in the markets. He learned that the hard way in month five. At more places than not, born and bred Lucians consistently paid a cent for every nickel Prompto did for the exact same goods. With Ignis it was touch and go, a toss-up between his obviously non-native appearance and accent and his good reputation among the people.

No one who still had their sight could doubt Prompto’s origins though, and he hardly has the benefit of being a well-known and trusted government official from Insomnia like Ignis and Gladio do. Nickels for pennies it is, in most places.

Ignis promised to try to reduce the anti-Niff discrimination in the city, but either the other city officials didn’t want to work with him on it or whatever measures they put in place just don’t work. Prompto doesn’t have the slightest idea. He learned what sellers to avoid in the markets, what streets to stay away from, what hunters to steer clear of in the rare occasions that Prompto stays in Lestallum long enough to find himself in a bar. Unfortunate necessity.

Prompto scans the sparse produce in Ms. Rusina’s stand, judging whether the momentary indulgence of a small can of preserved oranges —the first wee things from the artificially lit greenhouses— is worth losing out on another couple packs of mushrooms and rice. He counts his gil, runs through the pros and cons, and comes to the conclusion that another (figurative) night spent sleeping on stone will be easier to bear with a treat for breakfast.

On the way out of the market, Prompto’s right arm is caught by sword-calloused fingers, his wrist gripped tight. Muscle memory born from a childhood spent in xenophobic Insomnia has Prompto yanking his arm back, bracing to run as soon as he’s free.

When he realizes who’s grabbed him, Prompto freezes and blinks. “Iris?”

“Hey you,” Iris drops Prompto’s wrist and crosses her arms. The sleeve tattoo on the left is a little more filled out than it was the last time Prompto saw her, and her hair looks freshly cut, cropped close to her head. “Long time no see. Where’ve you _been_?”

“Doing some hunts,” Prompto draws his arm close to himself, flexing his hand. “You know how it is. Always busy, y’know?”

“Gladdy’s been worried sick about you. Ignis too,” Iris says. She clears her throat pointedly. “You on your way to see them?”

Prompto definitely wasn’t, but now that Iris has seen him there’s no way he’s gonna be able to slip back out of the city unnoticed. He swallows. Shoulders his bag. “Yeah.”

Iris makes a face. There’s a solid chance that she can tell Prompto’s lying, but she doesn’t call him on it. Small blessings. “I’ve gotta go, but I’ll probably come by the apartment later. It’s that time of year. I’ll see you there?”

“For sure,” Prompto grins, though he can _feel_ how weak it must look. “See you then.”  
Iris dashes back off into the depths of the market with a jaunty wave of the hand and a clatter of chain dangling from the belt loop of her jeans. Prompto watches her go, a seasoned hunter at twenty years old, too young for fighting the apocalypse. Too young to be facing the darkest horrors of the world. 

Then again, by the time Prompto hit twenty-one he had seen all Iris has and worse.

Prompto can delay this or he can just go and get it over with. A moment’s consideration leads Prompto toward the old apartment he used to share with Ignis and Gladio back when they first returned to Lucis. It’s near the city center, where most of the rudimentary government officials live. It’s about as nice a place as you can get in Eos these days. Two bedrooms, clean and free of mold and pests, and full of the type of empty spaces that only a lost lover can leave behind.

Prompto hasn’t thought about that in a while. He must be getting sentimental in his old age.

The walk is both way too long and far shorter than Prompto feels it should be. In a century and no time at all, Prompto finds himself on the doorstep of Ignis and Gladio’s apartment. Prompto knows he could probably let himself in; there’s a spare key in the arsenal that was once specifically Prompto’s. He doesn’t want to claim any ownership of this place by just walking in, so he knocks and waits.

The door opens inward, just a crack at first, then blown open as if struck by gale-force winds. Gladio stands behind it, eyes wide.

“What—” Gladio is speechless for a moment, looking as if he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice and can’t figure out if the effort to escape falling is worth it. Then his brow furrows over suspiciously bright eyes, and he seizes Prompto’s shoulders, drawing him into Gladio’s broad chest. Prompto lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Prompto.”

The way Gladio says it… the name sounds like it is more than what it is. An invocation of something holy and lost to time. It stirs something in Prompto’s chest, small and warm and living between his lungs. “Gladio.”

Prompto could just melt like this after too long spent in isolation. He presses his face into Gladio’s jacket, indulging in the feeling of the familiar soft leather. He used to cocoon himself in that jacket on his bad days back when the sun still shone.

For a moment, Prompto almost forgets why he didn’t want to come back.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Ah. There it is.

Prompto pulls away, hiking his shoulders up and folding his arms over his chest. “They needed someone to go take hunts out in Leide. I went.”

“You didn't _say_ anything,” Gladio huffs out a breath and glances back into the apartment. When he meets Prompto’s eyes once more, his voice drops in volume. “You just left. We had no idea— we had to find out from Dave where you were going. Every time someone would bring tags back we— you can’t just do that. You can't. We’ve already—”

Gladio’s mouth works around the next words for a moment, then he just doesn't finish the thought.

“I didn't exactly feel that welcome here last I came around,” Prompto's hands tighten from where they had been loosely clasped around his biceps. “You didn't really think I'd stick around after all that, did you?”

“You should have. I was wrong. Knew I was. I just got caught up in it all.”

“How long’d it take for you to figure that one out?” Prompto knows he’s being unfair, but _really_. It may not have been the worst fight they had in the past five years, but gods was it close.

“As soon as I woke up the next morning,” Gladio reaches forward and gently coaxes Prompto's clenched left hand away from his arm, which was turning white and bloodless under the pressure. Prompto doesn't snatch it back like he probably ought to. “I woke up and went into the spare room to apologize and you weren't there.”

Prompto swallows.

“I'm sorry,” Gladio breathes out. “I mean it. I know you guys can fend your yourselves. I know you don’t need my protection. I’m still… after… I was worried. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t. I’m not a kid. I can handle myself.”

“I know,” Gladio squeezes Prompto’s hand. “I know. After Ignis broke his ankle in October and you came home with an arrow still in you I just. I said some stupid things. It doesn’t make it right.”

“It doesn’t,” Prompto hesitates. “But I get it.”

They stand in the doorway. Gladio holds Prompto’s hand in two of his. The wind blows.

“Can I… can I come in?” Prompto asks. “It’s um. A little cold, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Gladio steps back, pulling Prompto into the apartment with him. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Prompto’s situated right under a vent in the entryway, and he soaks in the warmth like some sort of weird temperature sponge.

It takes him a moment to remember the term _heat sink_.

“Is Iris here already?” And Ignis rounds the corner, visor nowhere to be seen. He’s favoring the ankle he broke a few months ago, but otherwise seems none the worse for wear. His hair is down and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. It’s a good look. “It’s a little early.”

Gladio makes to speak but Prompto beats him to the punch. “Hey Iggy.”

Ignis freezes. His lips part. “Oh.”

What he does next is probably a little undignified, but Prompto can hardly complain. He hadn't expected (or really even wanted) many happy meetings upon returning to Lestallum, but he missed being in one place with his boyfriends more than he realized. It helps that Ignis was, in his own way, on Prompto's side when Gladio pulled his irrational anger out of worry shit right before Prompto dropped off the face of Eos.

They part and Prompto turns his head to see a very… indescribable sort of emotion plastered on Gladio's face. Like he’s trying too hard not to react and now he just looks weird.

“Gods’ sake Gladio,” Prompto beckons him over. “We can talk more about the other stuff later. Just get over here.”

As it turns out, it’s a lot easier to deal with issues with your boyfriends when you’re not actively avoiding said boyfriends in favor of traipsing around the mortally dangerous countryside. After a shower and a quick patch job on the cut down Prompto’s leg than he had kinda forgotten about, he sits at the kitchen table watching Ignis dart around from pot to pan to counter. Prompto’s peeling potatoes, setting each finished one in a bowl for Ignis to retrieve and rinse.

“What’re you making so much food for?” Prompto finishes the final spud and shakes the last bits of potato skin still clinging to the peeler into the garbage can. “There's just the three of us, yeah?”

Ignis pauses mid-stir. “Are you aware of the date, Prompto?”

He is not, but he does give trying to count it out in his head a good college try. The best he’s got is that it's somewhere in the latter half of December. “...not really.”

“It’s the twenty-second. If we were still in Insomnia, we would likely be celebrating—”

“Shit, it’s the Frost Festival,” Prompto groans, pillowing his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Iggy. I had no idea. I don’t have anything...”

The Frost Festival was never something that he celebrated much as a kid. His parents did _something_ , but it was never any sort of celebrating he was involved in. Usually they went out to parties specifically for adults and left him home, when Prompto was old enough to be left alone for an evening. Once his parents stopped coming home altogether, Prompto never bothered with it all. The holiday wasn't really observed outside of Insomnia, so it wasn't as if he was the only one in his neighborhood who didn't celebrate. It was pretty rare to see someone partaking in the immigrant district.

Prompto never did anything when it came to the Frost Festival until he met Noct. Despite Prompto's best efforts, Noct had managed to wrangle out of Prompto that fact that he’d never had anyone around for the festival, and Prompto was never alone for the holidays after that.

The first time Prompto celebrated the Frost Festival at Noct’s place —a day late, because there were more official celebrations at the Citadel on the actual day of course— he may or may not have teared up when Ignis brought out a fourth slice of King’s Cake just for him. When it turned out that Prompto got the piece of cake with the coin in it, meant to indicate the Glacian’s blessing for the coming year, Prompto really did cry.

It wasn't his proudest moment, though it was definitely not nearly as bad as his meltdown over actually being given gifts later on.

“Well, it isn't as if you had a calendar out there to check the date,” Gladio practically teleported into the room for all the noise he made entering. Prompto doesn't jump, but it's close. “As long as we’re all here and safe, then it's a holiday spent well in my books.”

No one addresses the kujata in the room. They don't have to.

“Right,” Prompto clears his throat. “Is this why Iris said she’d be coming here later? I saw her earlier.”

“We planned on having a small get-together,” Ignis said. “Nothing overly extravagant, not when you weren’t here, but we’re trying to keep the holiday alive— for Talcott if no one else.”

“Who else is coming?”

“Iris, Talcott,” Gladio begins counting on his fingers. “Monica, Dustin, Cindy— though she said she’s never done this before. Cor if he has the time. Probably not everyone at once, though.”

That’s… sorta everyone they know. At least, everyone they know outside of being uneasy coworkers with a few people in Ignis and Gladio’s case. Prompto’s got some vague acquaintances in the hunters, but again. The Niff thing isn’t too attractive of a trait in Lestallum.

“I’m glad I made it back in time,” Prompto says. The thing is, he actually is. As rocky as things get sometimes, he really does love being with Ignis and Gladio. Would love being with Noct, if he could be. Always did. Once Gladio gets over his recent resurgence of overprotectiveness and Ignis’s ankle heals up all the way, things will be perfect— or as close as it can get to being so these days without the sun and without Noct and without a lot of the comforts everyone used to take for granted.

“I am as well,” Ignis takes the bowl of peeled potatoes from the table and drops a kiss onto Prompto’s forehead. It’s very nearly over Prompto’s left eye, but he turned his head at the last minute so it hit its intended mark despite Ignis’s slightly off aim. “Thank you for returning. I know it hasn’t been easy these days.”

As Ignis chops the potatoes and slips them into a pot of boiling water, Gladio hugs Prompto from behind, his arms wrapping snugly around Prompto’s shoulders. He must be bending down quite a bit since Prompto’s still in a dining chair, but Gladio doesn’t seem to mind it. “I _am_ sorry.”

“I know,” Prompto leans back into the touch.

“The whole month you were gone I couldn’t stop thinking— if the last thing I ever said to you was— you know—”

“You were never the type to stumble over your own tongue,” Prompto rolls his eyes and pats one of Gladio’s hands with his own. “That’s my job, big guy.”

Gladio laughs quietly. His lips are right behind the shell of Prompto’s ear. Suddenly that feels important. “I’m serious, Prompto.”

“Me too,” Prompto cranes his neck so he can kiss Gladio on the cheek. “Listen, Gladio. I’m here now so. Let’s just figure it out together. Later. It’s okay.”

Before Iris drops by, Ignis says that he has a bit if a surprise for Prompto and Gladio both. He ushered them out of the kitchen two hours before, but they had their suspicions. Prompto is glad to see his prediction was right.

Ignis made a King’s Cake somehow, even with the dearth of supplies these days. It’s not the way it was, but it’s close and that’s enough. Prompto digs in eagerly, and is ecstatic to find that he still likes it even with the recipe altered by necessity.

When his fork clinks against something metal in the last fourth of his slice, Prompto begins to cry. Just a little.

No one holds it against him.


End file.
